Sianna
BREATHING HARD, I WEAVED between a sea of faces, bumping shoulders and jumping over countless bags being dragged behind their oblivious owners. The loud terminal bell dinged in the background, and a crackle of static sang through the air. A muffled monotone voice sounded, and I barely made out the announcement until I heard, “This is the last call for gate eight C. I repeat, this is the last call for Flight 272, gate eight C.” Oh, crap. That was my gate. I picked up the pace.
I glanced up as the gate came into view. Yes! One moment I was running, the next, flying like a bird, and then I was falling. My palms slapped the cold marble floor, and my body followed suit—the sting to my hands like a prick of a thousand bees. Stunned, I stared at the polished tiles streaked with black scuff marks. Drawing in a deep breath, I pushed down on my palms and sat up. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, yet leaned more toward the tears. Shoulders slumped, I refused to move, indifferent to the questioning glances of passersby. They rushed on, not caring if I needed help, all so self-absorbed with their own lives.
“Why does this shit keep happening to me?” I muttered.
Tears stung the back of my lids, threatening to fall. The chaos of my life weighed me down. Resting my elbow on a thigh, I massaged my brow, not sure which annoyed me more—working my ass off for a meager salary that wasn’t worth suffering a groping boss—or putting up with a condescending aunt, who harassed me every day. And now this.
Pulling off my shoes, I glared at the broken heel. “Can someone just give me a break?” For once, I wanted something to go my way.
A sudden shadow obscured my blurred vision. Blinking away the tears, I eyed the strong, manicured hand in front of me. He turned it over, revealing his palm that now offered me a hand up. I glanced up his arm to his face and gasped. Intense, translucent grays stared back at me with a hypnotic assurance, immediately drawing me in.
“Need a hand?” his voice was deep, sexy and manly.
I shifted my gaze, studying his features in awe. Dark brown hair, short on the sides, slightly longer on the top and dusted with liberal flecks of silver. He was older. I could tell by the more salt-than-pepper beard that kissed a strong jawline. A mouth outlined by perfectly shaped lips dipped at the corners into a slow smile—the instantly contagious kind. The man radiated unadulterated sexiness.
I accepted his hand. When he pulled me up, the strength in his arms forced my palms to fall against his hard chest. His quick hands grabbed my hips, steadying me as our gazes locked. Without thinking, I kissed him, brushing my lips over his. An electric pulse radiated throughout my body, my breath held captive in my lungs, and I stepped closer into his broad, masculine chest.
To my surprise, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth lightly to mine. Need, hot, and wanton squeezed my insides. Against my better judgment, I opened my mouth. He inhaled sharply before slipping his tongue between my teeth, slow and uncertain at first before his hand moved to my back, drawing me closer and he took control. Our entrancing rhythm stopped time. The chaos around us became a distant blur along with my inhibitions, worries, and irritation. He deepened the kiss, his smooth tongue dancing over mine in bold possession. Languid heat pooled in my lower abdomen. God, if his kiss was this mesmerizing, I could only imagine what other pleasures he had in store for a lover.
The sudden jerk of someone bumping into us, brought us crashing back to reality with a sharp jolt. I pulled back, breathing hard, and stared into the mysterious depths of a stranger who’d just dominated my mouth with practiced skill.
He studied my face. His breathing equally strained. “Do you always thank strangers with a kiss?” Those silver eyes glowed with part amusement, part arousal.
I gulped. God, I’d never done anything this spontaneous before. A combination of surprise, irritation, and anger snowballed me into action. Spinning around, I ran. Not intimidated by the numerous glares, I pushed past the milling bodies of people, leaving behind the only pair of expensive shoes I’d ever owned. The coldness of the tiles seeped into my bare feet with every hurried step I took. I exited the departure terminal to a long line of yellow cabs, ran up to the first one, yanked open the door and jumped in.
As I left the JFK airport behind me, I fished my phone out of my jacket pocket and dialed. “Ru? Meet me for a drink? Long story. Usual place in thirty? Oh, and bring me a pair of shoes, please” I rushed on, then disconnected the call.
Raking both hands through my hair, I mumbled the address to the driver and sank back against the seat. My mobile rang. I glanced at the number, shaking my head. My boss’s name flashed across the screen. Thomas asshole Crawford, a no-nonsense, uptight pervert, was probably checking to see if I’d boarded yet. Missing my flight was perhaps the best thing that happened to me in the last seven months since being transferred to his department.
“Hello.”
“The fact that you’re answering this call right now tells me you’ve decided not to come,” his sneer came across loud and clear.
“Yes,” I replied without thought.
“What the fuck, Sianna, don’t you value your job?” he berated over the phone. “I booked the best fucking restaurant in town and this is the thanks I get. Do you know how many women would kill to be in your position, to be on my arm, to be with me?”
I cringed at the thought of him pawing me with his slimy hands. So far, I’d managed to avoid compromising situations with him.
“Of course, I do,” I mumbled. Thomas had invited, more like demanded I attend a three-day marketing conference with him, reasons unknown. Up until that moment, my shoe gave up, I’d adhered to his request because I needed the job.
“You’re fired, Sianna.”
I gasped. “You can’t do that?”
“I’m your boss. I can do whatever the fuck I want. You’re incompetent as fuck, so case closed. I want your desk cleaned out, by the time I return.” The line went dead in my ear.
I scowled at the phone, uttering every curse word I could make up. “Who the fuck did he think he was?”
The cab driver glanced at me over his shoulder, his countenance solemn. “Bad day, sweetheart?”
I offered the old man a small smile. “Just part of many.”
“There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel.” His smiling blue eyes stared at me in the rearview mirror.
Shaking my head, I studied the passing scenery. “Not in my lifetime.”
When my father died from a heart attack three years ago, my world came crumbling down. As a waitress, my salary hadn’t been great, and my father’s income as a mechanic made up the shortfall on our expenses. His sudden death put an end to my studies and dreams of becoming a chef. Unable to pay the mortgage, I lost the only home I’d known, forcing me to move in with my aunt. An overbearing, cantankerous woman who was hell-bent on making my life difficult. Every morning began with the same prayer. To move out on my own. Unfortunately, as a junior secretary, my salary didn't allow that luxury after giving my aunt most of it.
The cab pulled up in front of Hoyden’s Bar on Sixth Street, drawing me out of my dismal thoughts. I paid the driver and inhaled the salty air. Leighton was a small town located a few miles outside of Manhattan, with a close-knit community and a picture-perfect beach. But due to my aunt’s unsophisticated and, at times, embarrassing behavior, I kept to myself. Only a handful of people knew me. Tightening my jacket against the mid-November chill, I entered the bar. Greeting two regulars, I skirted their tables, reached the corner booth, and dropped into a seat.